


American Royals

by CrochanWitch



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Super Sons (Comics), Teen Titans - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Jason Todd, Alpha Jonathan Samuel Kent, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternative Universe - Kingdom, Beta Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Good Parent Talia al Ghul, M/M, Modern Royalty, Omega Damian Wayne, Omega Tim Drake, Slow Burn, Tim Drake Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 06:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29870454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrochanWitch/pseuds/CrochanWitch
Summary: This is the story of American royalty.As Prince Timothy moves closer to becoming America's first omega king, the duty he has embraced all of his life suddenly feels suffocating.No one cares about the replacement, except when he's breaking the rules, so Prince Damian doesn't care much about anything either . . except for the boy who is clearly out of his limits.And then there's the oldest of them, the Prince Dick. Most of America adores their devastatingly handsome prince but no one knows that there's a racing to capture his heart.
Relationships: Artemis Crock/Dick Grayson, Cassandra Cain & Jason Todd, Cassandra Cain & Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Jonathan Samuel Kent, Tim Drake/Jonathan Kent, Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent
Comments: 5
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, this story is based almost entirely on the book American Royals by Katherine McGee, I have only added the Alpha/beta/omega theme, and modified some relationships and facts. 
> 
> Second, as I explain in each of my stories, English is not my first language, so I am sorry for any mistakes you may find. 
> 
> Third, if you follow any of my stories I will update soon.

**Tim**

Tim was well aware of his lineage, which dated back to the 10th century.  
Actually, it was only on Queen Martha's side, although most preferred not to mention that detail. After all, King George I had been nothing more than an upstart Virginia planter until he had an eye for marrying and an even better eye for fighting. So well did he fight that he helped bring about America's independence and his people thanked him with a crown.

However, through Martha, at least, Tim was able to go back more than forty generations through his family tree. His ancestors included kings, queens and archdukes, scholars and soldiers, even a canonized saint. "We have a lot to learn from our past," his father always reminded him, "Never forget where you came from".

It was hard to forget your ancestors when you carried their names with you, as it was for Tim: Timothy Benjamin Jackson of the House of Washington, royal prince of America.  
Tim's father, His Majesty King Bruce III, shot him a little look. He reflexively straightened in his seat to listen to the high constable go over plans for the Queen's Ball, which was being held the next day. He had his palms on his thighs and his legs straight and firm, because, as his etiquette teacher had burned into him (slapping his wrist with a ruler every time he made a mistake), a true gentleman (whether an omega or not) always stands his ground in the presence of others.

And the rules were stricter for Tim than for anyone else, since he was not only an omega, but also the first omega to inherit the American throne. The first omega to be king in his own right: not a king consort, married to another king, but a true reigning sovereign.  
Tim recalled with some longing his early years, when he received the normal etiquette lessons for an omega from a royal family. But the days when it only mattered how good he was at playing an instrument, dancing or painting were over on his tenth birthday, when he was named royal heir. 

Had he been born twenty years earlier, the succession would have been skipped to Cassandra. But it was common knowledge that his grandfather had abolished that centuries-old law and had dictated that, in all subsequent generations, the throne should pass to the eldest descendant, not to the eldest of the alphas or betas.

Tim let his gaze wander over the meeting table before him. It was covered with papers and coffee cups whose contents had cooled hours before. It was the day of the last cabinet meeting until January, which meant they had gone through a multitude of annual reports and long spreadsheets of analysis.

Cabinet meetings were always held there, in the Star Chamber, named for the golden stars painted on its blue walls and the famous star-shaped oculus in the ceiling. The winter sun streamed through it and shed tantalizing pools of light on the table. Not that Tim was going to get a chance to enjoy it, though. He rarely had time left to step outside, except on days when he woke before dawn to join his father on his run through the capital, flanked by his security detail.

For a brief, uncharacteristic instant, he wondered what his siblings were doing, if they were back from their whirlwind trip to East Asia by now. Dick, Cassandra and Damian were a dangerous trio when Dick managed to convince Damian to join them on their adventures. 

Dick was cheerful and spontaneous, enjoying having no responsibilities other than being the face of many of the foundations sponsored by the royal family. He was a beta, and the oldest of the four, but at the age of fifteen he had decided that life as a ruler was not right for him and had abdicated the throne and all rights to it. Months later, on Tim's tenth birthday, he had been the one to present him with the royal crown and had been at his side as he was named heir to the American kingdom. 

Cassandra was a year younger than Tim and the only alpha besides her father. Most of the time she was quiet and mysterious, but she enjoyed traveling and ballet, so she always agreed to fly off the cuff to the other side of the world and join Dick in his shenanigans. Until four years ago she was his spare, the next in line, but she didn't wish to follow that path either, so like Dick she had abdicated her position of succession, but had agreed to become third in line in case something happened to Damian. 

And Damian, he had grown up as what society expected of an omega, but once he became second in line that part of him had gone into hiding to become what the press called the embarrassment of the royal family. He was brimming with bad ideas and, unlike most teenagers, he had the power to carry them out, much to the disgrace of his parents. Six months out of high school, it was clear he didn't know what to do with his life, except celebrate the fact that he had turned eighteen and could now legally drink alcohol.  
Dick had finished college and was good at what he did, while Cassandra was a senior, but was already known in the artistic scene for her dancing prowess. While no one expected anything from Damian, ever. All remaining expectations, both in the family and, indeed, the entire world, were focused on Tim as if pointing a red-hot spotlight at him.

The high constable finished his report at last. The king nodded graciously and stood up.

"Thank you, Jacob. If there is no further business, we will adjourn today's meeting".

  
They all stood up and began to leave the room, chatting about the next day's ball or their plans for the vacations. They seemed to have put aside, for the moment, their political rivalries (the king sought to have the composition of his cabinet evenly split between Federalists and Democratic Republicans), although Tim was sure that the fight would continue with renewed energy in the coming year.  
His personal bodyguard, Conner, looked up from his post at the doors of the room next to the king's security detail. Both alphas were members of the Honor Guard, the elite corps dedicated to the service of the Crown.

"Timothy, can you stay a minute?" asked his father.

  
"Of course," he replied, pausing on the threshold.

  
The king sat down again, and Tim followed his example.

"Thank you again for helping me with the nominations," said the monarch.

  
They both looked down at the paper in front of them, which listed the names in alphabetical order.

"I'm glad you accepted them," he smiled.

The palace's annual Christmas party, the Queen's Ball, was held the following day; the name commemorated the first Christmas ball, at which Queen Martha had urged King George I to ennoble scores of Americans who had helped in the war. The tradition has continued ever since. Every year at the ball, the king bestowed titles of nobility on those Americans who had distinguished themselves by their service to the country, so that they became lords and ladies. And, for the first time, he had allowed Tim to suggest candidates for nobility.  
Before he could ask what he wanted from him, someone knocked on the door. The king let out a deep sigh of relief as Tim's mother entered the room.

Queen Talia came from nobility on both sides of the family. Before her marriage to the king she had inherited the duchy of Canaveral and the duchy of Savannah. People called her the Double Duchess.  
Talia had been born in America, but had spent her childhood in the East (where her family and surname came from) and had returned in her teens, and had never lost her ethereal Arabian charm. Her mannerisms still had a touch of elegance: the way she cocked her head when she smiled at her son, the twist of her wrist as she settled into the walnut chair to Tim's right. Her skin looked sun-kissed, and a few freckles adorned her cheeks, but her mother covered them every morning before she gathered up her hair and decorated it with a tiara of bright emeralds, her family's color.   
The way they sat, with a parent on either side, caging him in, gave him the distinct feeling of having been ambushed.

"Hello, mother," greeted her with some surprise, since the queen did not usually participate in his political debates.

"Timothy, your mother and I were hoping we could talk for a moment about your future," the king began.

  
The omega blinked, puzzled, since he was always thinking about the future.

  
"On a more personal level," his mother clarified, "we were wondering if there is someone... special in your life right now.

  
Tim was startled, for although he had expected that conversation sooner or later and had done his best to mentally prepare for it, he didn't think it would happen so soon.

  
"No, no one," he assured them.

  
His parents nodded distractedly; they both knew the answer beforehand. The whole country knew it.

  
"Your mother and I would like you to consider starting to look for a partner," her father said after clearing his throat. "The person you will spend the rest of your life".

Her words seemed to ricochet, amplified, through the Star Chamber.  
Tim had hardly any experience in romantic matters, no matter how many foreign Prince and Princesses of his age had tried. The only one who had made it to a second date was Princess Cassandra of Greece. Her parents had urged her to participate in an exchange program at Harvard for a semester, with the obvious intention of driving the American prince crazy with love for her. Tim dated her to please both families, but got nothing out of the affair, even though, as the youngest son of a royal family, Cassandra was one of the few alphas available to him. The future monarch could only marry someone of noble or aristocratic blood.

Tim had always known that he was forbidden to date the wrong person; he wasn't even allowed to kiss the wrong person, as everyone at the university seemed to do. After all, no one wanted to see their future king returning from a night out with suspiciously wrinkled clothes.  
No, it was much safer for the heir to the throne to have no sexual past that the press would later throw in his face: no old boyfriends, no exes peddling intimate secrets in an uncensored autobiography. There could be no ups and downs in Tim's relationships. Once he started dating in public, it was over: they would have to be happy and stable and devoted to each other.

He had needed no further encouragement to give up dating almost completely.  
The press had been applauding him for many years for taking such good care of his reputation. However, since turning twenty-one, he had noticed a change in the way they talked about his love life. Instead of dedicated and virtuous, journalists were starting to call him lonely and pitiable, or worse: frigid. They complained that if he never dated, how could he get married and begin the all-important work of procreating the next heir to the throne?

"Don't you think I'm too young to worry about that?" Tim asked, relieved to find that he was speaking very calmly. Although, after all, he had been brought up from a young age to hide his emotions from the public eye.

  
"I was your age when your father and I got married. And I got pregnant of Richard the following year," the queen reminded him.

A truly terrifying thought.

  
"That was twenty-five years ago!" Tim protested. "No one expects that... I mean, times have changed"

  
"We're not saying you have to walk down to the altar tomorrow. All we're asking is that you start thinking about it. It won't be an easy decision, and we want to help you".

"Help me?"

  
"There are several alphas we would love to introduce to you. We've invited them all to the ball tomorrow night".

  
The queen opened her grained leather bag and pulled out a folder with colorful plastic labels peeking out of it. She handed it to her daughter.  
Each label read one name: Lord Jose Ramirez, future Duke of Texas; Lady Ariana Dzerchenko, future Duchess of Orange; Lord Jonathan Kent, future Duke of Boston.

  
"Are you trying to find me a groom?"

  
"We are only offering you a few options. We want to introduce you to some young men who might fit the bill".

  
Tim flipped through the folder, stunned. There was all kinds of information: family trees, photos, high school transcripts, and even the height and weight of each one.

"Did you use your security clearance to get all this?"

  
"No." The king seemed shocked at the mere suggestion that he had abused his privileges at the National Security Agency. "The information was willingly provided to us by these young alphas and their families. They know what they're getting into".

  
"So you've already spoken to them," Tim replied, embarrassed. "And you want me to meet these... potential husbands tomorrow night at the Queen's Ball?"

  
"It sounds so impersonal like that! "complained her mother, who arched her eyebrows to show her displeasure. "All we ask is that you talk with them, get to know them a little better. Who knows? Maybe one of them will surprise you".

  
"Tim, when you finally choose someone, they will not only be your husband, but also America's first alpha king consort. And marrying the reigning monarch is a full-time job".

  
"A job that never ends," the queen added.

Through the window, Tim heard laughter and chatter in the Marble Courtyard, and a single voice struggling gallantly to rise above the din. Surely it was the guided tour of some school, the day before winter break. Those teenagers were not much younger than he was, and yet Tim felt at an irrevocable distance from them.  
He used his thumb to lift the pages of the folder and then let them cascade down again; in all, it was only about a dozen guys.

"This folder is pretty thin," he commented quietly.

Evidently, he had always known that he would have to fish in a very small pond, that his romantic options were extremely limited. Not as limited as they had been a hundred years ago, when a king's marriage was a matter of public policy rather than the heart. At least he wouldn't have to marry to seal a treaty.

However, it seemed too much to ask to be able to fall in love with one of the people on that short list.

  
"Your father and I have been very thorough. We looked at all the children and grandchildren of the nobility before we put these names together," his mother replied in a kindly tone.

  
"You've got some great choices, Timothy," the king nodded. "All the alphas included in the folder are intelligent, thoughtful, and of good family; the kind of alphas who will support you without letting their ego get in the way".

  
"Good family." Tim knew what that meant. They were the children and grandchildren of important American nobles, if only because the foreign princes around his age (Cassandra, Charles of Schleswig-Holstein or Grand Duke Pieter) had already been ruled out.

Tim looked first at his mother and then at his father.

  
"What if my future husband is not on the list? What if I don't want to marry any of them?"

"You don't even know them yet," her father replied. "Besides, your mother and I were introduced by our parents, and look how well it turned out," he added, looking the queen in the eyes as he gave her a sweet smile.

  
The omega nodded, a little calmer. He knew his father had chosen his mother just like that, from a short list of pre-approved choices. They had only met a dozen times before their wedding day. Yet their arranged marriage had eventually blossomed into a true union of love.  
He tried to consider the possibility that his parents were right: that he might fall in love with one of the young men included in that frighteningly large folder.  
It did not seem possible.

He didn't know these nobles yet, but he could already imagine what they were like: the same kind of spoiled, self-centered alphas who had been hovering around him for years. The kind of alphas he had cautiously turned down at Harvard every time he was invited to one of their exclusive alpha clubs or a fraternity party. The kind of guys who looked at him and saw not a person, but a crown.  
Sometimes, Tim would get a treacherous thought: that his parents saw it that way, too.

The king rested his palms on the conference table. On the tanned skin of his hands glittered a pair of rings: the simple gold wedding band from his wedding and, next to it, the heavy ring engraved with the Great Seal of America. Her two marriages: to the queen and to his country.

"Our hope has always been that you will fall in love with someone who is also able to cope with the demands that come with this life," the king told him. "Someone who is the right choice for both you and America".

Tim heard the implied meaning: that if he couldn't find someone who fit both roles, America should always come first. More important than following the dictates of his heart was that he marry someone capable of taking on that job and doing it well.  
The truth was that Tim had given up on his heart long ago. His life did not belong to him, his choices were never entirely his own; he had known that since he was a child.

His grandfather, King Thomas III, had told him so on his deathbed. The memory would forever remain etched in his brain: the aseptic smell of the hospital, the fluorescent yellow lights, the imperious tone with which his grandfather had shooed everyone out of the room. "I have to tell Timothy a thing or two," he had announced in that deep, terrifying voice he used only with him.  
The dying king had tucked Tim's little hands in his own.

"Long ago, monarchies existed for the people to serve the monarch. Now it is the monarch who must serve the people. Remember that to be a Washington and dedicate your life to this nation is an honor and a privilege".

  
Tim nodded with a solemn air. He knew his duty was to always put the people first; everyone had been repeating that to him since he was born. The words "to serve God and country" were painted on his bedroom walls, literally.

  
"From now on you will be two people at once: Tim, the child, and Timothy, the heir to the Crown. When those two people want different things, the Crown must win. Always," added his grandfather, very serious. "Swear it to me".

  
His fingers closed over the boy's with surprising strength.

  
"I swear it," Tim had whispered.

He did not remember choosing to pronounce those words consciously; it was as if a force greater than himself, perhaps the spirit of America itself, had taken hold of him for a moment and ripped them from his chest.  
Tim lived to honor that sacred oath. He had always known that the decision he faced awaited him in the future. However, it was all being so sudden that he was breathless: his parents expected him to start choosing a husband the next day, and from a very short list of candidates.

"You know that this life is not easy," the king told him kindly. "That often what you see from the outside has nothing to do with what it is from the inside. Timothy, it is essential that you find the right partner to share it with. Someone to help you overcome the challenges and enjoy the successes. Your mother and I are a team. I couldn't have done any of this without her".

Tim swallowed hard in an attempt to undo the lump in his throat. Well, if he needed to marry for the good of the country, he might as well try to choose one of the alphas approved by his parents.

  
"Do you want us to review the candidates before we meet them tomorrow?" he asked at last, and opened the folder to the first page.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for any mistakes.

**Jason**

Jason Haywood climbed the stairs at the back of the classroom to his usual seat in the auditorium. Before him stretched the hundreds of red auditorium chairs, each with its own built-in wooden desk. Almost all of them were occupied. It was Introduction to World History, a required class for all first-year students at King's College: King Edward I had decreed it when he founded the university in 1828, but Jason had skipped that class for three years, it was time to take it.   
He rolled up his flannel shirt sleeves and exposed the tattoo on his wrist, its angular lines etched into his luminous skin. It was the Chinese character meaning "friendship". Cassandra had insisted on getting it tattooed together to celebrate her eighteenth birthday. Of course, Cass couldn't be seen with tattoos, so hers was in a much more intimate place.

"You're coming tonight, aren't you?" asked his friend Roy Harper, sitting in the seat next to him.

"Tonight?"

Jason bit down his pencil. A handsome omega at the end of the row was staring at him, but he paid no attention. The omega looked too much like the young man he was trying to forget.

"We're meeting in the common room to watch the coverage of the Queen's Ball. Kory has made cherry pies from the official recipe, the one in the Washington cookbook. She even bought the cherries from the palace gift store, so they're the real deal," he added, enthusiastically.

"I'm sure they're delicious."

Those cherry pies were world famous: the palace had been serving them at all their outdoor parties and galas for generations. Jason wondered what Roy or Kory would say if they knew how much the Washingtons secretly hated those pies.  
The truth was, for more authenticity, theirs would have been barbecue. or breakfast tacos. The royal family ate both with astonishing frequency.

"So you're coming, are you?" Roy insisted.

"I can't," Jason replied, trying to look regretful. "I'm on the night shift".

He was working in the university library sorting books as part of the student aid program that funded his scholarship. In any case, had he been free, he had no intention of watching the Queen's Ball on TV either. He had attended that gala several years in a row, and it was always pretty much the same.

"I didn't know the library was open on Friday nights".

  
"Well, you should come with me. Some of us seniors still have final exams; maybe you know an interesting omega," Jason joked.

"Only you would be able to fantasize about a romantic encounter in a library," replied Roy, shaking his head. 

A few seconds later Kory interrupted their conversation by sitting to Jason's left. He adored his two best friends, without them his college life would have been very boring, but sometimes they exasperated him with their adoration for the royal family. Once Roy had told him that he had named his goldfish Richard...well, the ten goldfish he had owned.

"What are they talking about?" 

"The queen's ball," Roy replied.

Kory let out a longing sigh, "What is Prince Timothy wearing tonight, or Princess Cassandra? Remember last year's dress, the one with the illusion neckline? It was very elegant.

  
Jason didn't want to talk about the royal family, however, his friendship with Damian prompted him to ask:

"What about Damian? He always looks so handsome, too."

  
Kory let out a vague little noise to express her disagreement, not paying attention to the question. It was a very typical reaction. The country adored Tim, their future sovereign... or, at least, most people did, except for the sexist groups that were still protesting against the Crown Succession Law. Those people hated Tim simply for having the audacity to be the omega who would inherit a throne that had always belonged to the alphas and betas.They constituted a minority, but they were aggressive and loud, always trolling Tim's photos that appeared on the networks and booing him at political meetings.

However, if most of the nation loved Tim, what they felt for Dick and Cassandra was absolute adoration; at times they seemed to let out a collective sigh of love. Dick was the eldest, and Cassandra the second alpha in the family, and the world was willing to forgive them anything, even if Jason wasn't.  
As for Damian... At best, he entertained people. At worst, which was quite often, they didn't approve of his behavior. The problem was that they didn't know him. Not like Jason.

He was saved from answering by Professor Urquhart, who began to walk up to the podium with heavy steps. There was a commotion as the seven hundred students stopped their muttering chatter and placed their laptops before them. Jason, who must have been the only person still taking notes by hand, in a spiral notebook, poised his pencil on a fresh sheet of paper and looked up, expectantly. Specks of dust floated in the beams of sunlight streaming in through the windows.

  
"As we have seen throughout the semester, political alliances in the late 19th century tended to be bilateral and easily broken. That's why many of them were sealed through marriages," said the professor. "Everything changed with the creation of the League of Kings: a treaty between several nations to ensure collective security and peace. The League was founded in 1895, with the Paris Agreement, which was hosted by...."

  
"Luis," Jason finished the sentence to himself. It was the easiest part of French history: their kings were always called Luis something, all the way up to the current one, King Luis XXIII. The truth was that the French were worse with their Luis than the Washingtons were with their George.

Copied the professor's words into his notebook as wished the professor would stop talking about the Washingtons. College was supposed to be a clean slate, a chance to find out who he really was, free from the influence of the royal family. But he' d been there for four years and things didn't seem that way.

Jason had been best friends with Princess Cassandra and Prince Damian since they were little. They had met ten years ago when they interviewed Jason's mother, Sheila, at the palace. The previous king, Thomas III, Cass and Damian's grandfather, had just passed away, and the new king needed a chamberlain. Sheila had been working at the Chamber of Commerce and somehow, by sheer miracle, her boss recommended her to his majesty. Because you didn't apply for a job in the palace, but rather the palace drew up a list of candidates and, if you were one of the lucky few, they were the ones who went looking for you.

The afternoon of the interview, Jason's other mother, Catherine, was out of town, and the usual babysitter canceled her appointment at the last minute, so Mom Sheila had no choice but to take Jason with her. "Stay here," she asked, and led him to a bench in a downstairs hallway.

  
Jason was surprised that his mother was being interviewed at the actual palace, but, as he would later find out, Washington Palace was not only the home of the royal family in the capital, but also the administrative center of the Crown. Of the six hundred rooms in the building, almost all were offices or public spaces. The private chambers upstairs were marked with oval knobs, rather than round ones like those downstairs.  
Jason sat down with his feet under his body and, without a sound, opened the book he had brought with him.

  
"What are you reading?"

A face crowned by a mountain of black hair peeked around a corner. Jason recognized the princess immediately. Cassandra, though she didn't look like a princess in her cream leggings and pink bodysuit. She had ballerina shoes in her hands and was walking barefoot.

"Well..."

  
Jason hid the cover in his lap. The book was about a princess, an imaginary one, but it was weird to confess to a real one.

"My older brother and I are reading a series about dragons," Cassandra told him, and cocked her head. "Have you seen it? I can't find it."

  
"I thought Damian was the youngest," he said helplessly, after shaking his head.

  
"Yes, but Dick is reading the books to me," Cassandra replied, as if it were the most common thing in the world that her fifteen-year-old brother read a children's book. "Do you want to help me look for him?"

The princess was quiet, and most of the time spoke almost in a whisper. Soon after they met the youngest prince, Damian who immediately joined them in their quest. He was a storm of kinetic energy jumping through the halls and kept opening doors and peeking out from behind furniture in search of his favorite brother. In the meantime, Cassandra would spout one anecdote or fun fact about the palace, his own guided tour of the palace's greatest hits.

"This room is possessed by the ghost of Queen Thérèse. I know it is her because the ghost speaks French," she announced in a mournful tone as she pointed to the hall below, which was closed. 

  
"I used to skate these halls, until my father caught me and told me I couldn't do it. Tim used to do it too, but it doesn't matter what she does. "Damian said, and he didn't sound resentful, just thoughtful. "He'll be king someday".

"And what will you be?" Jason asked them, curious.

Cassandra and Damian looked at each other before replying.

"Everything else," they said in unison.

They led Jason from one amazing place to another, through warehouses full of ironed linen napkins to a ballroom-sized kitchen where the chef handed them some cookies he pulled from a blue-painted jar. The princess took a bite of hers, but Jason pocketed it. It was too pretty to eat.  
As they walked back to the bench, Jason was surprised to see his mother coming down the hallway chatting quietly with the king. His eyes caught Jason, who froze.  
The king smiled, a genial, boyish smile that lit up his eyes.

  
"Well, who do we have here?"

  
Jason had never met a king before, but a spontaneous instinct (maybe because he' d seen it so many times on TV) prompted him to bow.

"This is my son, Jason," Sheila murmured.

  
Cassandra trotted over to her father and tugged on his hand.

  
"Dad, can Jason come back another day?" she begged.

  
The king turned his warm gaze to Jason's mother.

  
"Cassandra is right. I hope you will bring Jason back in the afternoon. After all, our working day is not a short one."

  
"Your Majesty?" Sheila asked, surprised.

  
"Clearly the children are getting along well, and I know your wife is also very busy. Why leave Jason at home with a nanny when he can come with you?"

  
Jason was too young to understand Sheila's hesitation.

  
"Oh, yes, Mom, please," he interjected, the spitting image of longing, so Sheila relented, sighing.

  
And, without further ado, Jason ended up thrust into the lives of the family's youngest children.

They instantly became a trio: the prince, the princess and the chambermaid's son. Back then, Jason didn't even feel self-conscious about the differences between his life and Cassandra and Damian's. Because, even though they were siblings and royalty, Damian and Cass never made him feel out of place. If anything, all three were equally excluded from the glamorous and inaccessible world of adults, even Tim, who, at ten years old, already had to take private lessons in addition to his school subjects.

Cass and Damian were always the instigators of their plans, while Jason tried, unsuccessfully, to keep them from making a mess. They would sneak away from the babysitter and stage an escapade: swimming in the indoor heated pool or searching for the rumored safe rooms and bomb shelters that were supposedly scattered around the palace. Once, Damian convinced them to hide under a tablecloth and eavesdrop on a private meeting between the king and the Austrian ambassador. They were discovered after a couple of minutes, when Cass tugged at the cloth and knocked over a pitcher of water, but, by then, Damian had already soaked the ambassador's shoe in honey. "If you don't want to get honey on your shoes, don't take them off under the table," he would say later with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.  
Sometimes they included Richard (Dick, as he liked to be called) in their plans. Those times were always the worst, either because the mischief got out of control or because they got caught before they started. Dick was a very bad liar.

The fact that Cass, Damian and Jason's friendship had survived over so many years was a true reflection of the princes' stubbornness. They refused to let life separate them, despite attending different schools and even after Jason's mother left her position as chamberlain and was appointed Minister of Finance. Cass or Damian continued to invite Jason to the palace for sleepovers or to the Washingtons' vacation homes for holiday weekends or as their chaperone for various official events.  
Jason's mothers had mixed feelings about their son's friendship with the princes.

Sheila and Catherine had met years ago, during their postgraduate studies, and were now one of the most powerful couples in the capital: Sheila was an alpha and worked as the Minister of Finance, while Catherine was an omega and the founder of a successful e-commerce business. They didn't argue often, but Jason's complicated relationship with the Washingtons was something they could never agree on.

"We can't let Jason go on that trip," Sheila had protested after Cass invited the boy to the beach house where the royal family vacationed. "I don't want him spending too much time with them, especially when we're not around."

Jason strained his ears to hear them, as their voices bounced through the building's old-fashioned heating pipes. He was in his bedroom on the second floor, under the loft. He didn't mean to eavesdrop on them, but neither had he ever confessed to them how well he heard them when they talked in the living room, which was just below.

"Why not?" Catherine had replied, her voice distorted by the old metal pipes.

"Because I care about him! The world the Washingtons inhabit, with their private jets, their court finery and their protocol..., is not reality. And no matter how often he is invited or how much the princes like him, Jason will never be one of them." Jason's mother sighed "I don't want him to feel like the poor cousin in a Jane Austen novel."

Jason moved closer to the wall to hear the answer.

  
"The princes have always been good friends, even Prince Richard enjoys spending time with him," his mother protested. "And you should have a little more faith in the way we've raised him. In fact, I think Jason will be a positive influence on the princes and remind them of what exists outside the palace gates. They will probably need a normal friend."

In the end, the two had decided to let him go, on the condition that he stay out of the public eye and never be quoted or photographed by the press in their coverage of the royal family. The palace had readily agreed. They also weren't too keen on the media focusing on the younger princes, specifically Prince Damian.

By the time they started high school, Jason had grown accustomed to his best friends' eccentric plans and infectious enthusiasm. "Let's take Ace for a ride!", Damian would tell him in a text message, since that's what he'd christened the lemon yellow jeep he'd begged his parents for as a gift for his sixteenth birthday. He had the car, but he kept failing the parallel parking part of the driving test, so he still didn't have his license. Which meant that Jason ended up driving that hideous yellow SUV all over the capital, while Damian sat in the passenger seat, cross-legged, and implored him to stop by a McDonald's for ice cream. After a while, Jason stopped being bothered by the bodyguard shooting them murderous looks from the back seat.

Cass and Damian made it all too easy for him to forget the endless differences that separated them. And Jason loved them unconditionally, just as he would have loved a brother if he'd had one. The problem was that his brothers happened to be the princes of America.  
However, their relationship had undergone a subtle change over the past six months.  
Jason had never told Cass or Damian about what happened the night of Damian's prom.... And, the more he kept it a secret, the greater the distance that seemed to open up between them. Then Cass, Damian and Dick left on their whirlwind trip, and Jason started his senior year of college; and maybe it was for the best. It was his chance to adjust to a more normal life, one without private jets, court finery and protocol that Sheila was so worried about. He could go back to being a normal kid in the real world.

Jason hadn't told anyone at King's College that Princes Damian and Cassandra were his best friends. Chances were they thought he was a liar or, if they believed him, maybe they were trying to use him to take advantage of his connections. He didn't know which was worse.  
Professor Urquhart turned off the microphone, ending the class. The murmur of hushed conversations and laptops closing began. Jason scribbled a few more notes in his notebook before tucking it into his shoulder strap and following Roy and Kory downstairs until they emerged into the courtyard.

A few girls from their hallway joined them, all talking excitedly about the party to watch the Queen's Ball. They directed their steps to the student center, where everyone usually ate after class, but Jason slowed his pace.  
A movement near the street had caught his eye: a black car was parked next to the curb, engine running. Leaning against the car window was a sheet of white paper with Jason's name handwritten on it.  
He would have recognized that handwriting anywhere.

"Jason? Are you coming?" Roy called out to him.

  
"Sorry, I have a meeting with my tutor," he lied.

  
Then he waited a few seconds before running across the lawn to the car.  
In the back seat were Princess Cassandra and Prince Damian, both dressed in matching sports outfits. Jason ran to sit next to them and shut the door before anyone could see them.

  
"Jason, I missed you!" Cass exclaimed as she wrapped her arms around him in a very effusive greeting, signifying that she had indeed missed him. A few seconds later Damian joined them on one of their sides. 

"And I miss you two," Jason murmured against Damian's shoulder.

  
A million questions burned on his lips.

Finally, Damian stepped back and approached the driver.

  
"You can drive around the campus for a while," Damian told him. 

  
"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be getting ready for tonight?

  
"We're kidnapping you to drag you to the Queen's Ball as our date!" Damian replied, to which Cass nodded in agreement.

  
"Sorry, I have to work," Jason replied.

  
"But your moms will be there! I'm sure they'd love to see you!" Damian let out a sigh. "Please, Jason. I could use the support, with my mom and dad.

  
"Didn't you just get home?"

  
How could they possibly be mad at him already?

  
"Last night in Thailand, Dick and I ran away from our bodyguards while Cass was asleep," Damian admitted as he looked out the window.

  
They were passing through College Street, heading toward the gothic architecture of Dandridge Library.

  
"You got rid of the bodyguards? How?"

"We got rid of them," Damian repeated, unable to suppress a smile. "Literally. Dick and I turned and ran out into traffic, ducked between cars and hitchhiked to a place where they rented quads. We drove them through the jungle. It was amazing."

  
"It looks dangerous," Jason commented, and his friend laughed.

  
"And I wasn't invited," Cassandra protested.

  
"Jay, you sound just like my parents! That's why I need you. I was hoping that, if you were coming with us tonight...."

  
"Keep you in check?" Jason finished for him.

  
As if he had ever been able to control the prince. There was no power on Earth capable of stopping Damian from doing whatever it was he set out to do.

"You know you're the good one!"

  
"I'm just "the good one" compared to you. Which isn't saying much. Besides, Cass will be there, she can keep an eye on you.

  
Cass shook her head. 

  
"She's still a little pissed that we didn't invite her, she hasn't spoken to Dick in days. 

  
"He deserves it," Cass replied. 

"Look, we can get out of the reception early, grab some homemade cookie dough from the kitchen and stay up late watching bad realities on TV. It's been ages since we've had a slumber party! Please," Damian repeated, "We've missed you so much."

  
It was hard not to listen to such a beg from one of your best friends.

  
"I guess... I could ask Jodi to switch shifts with me," Jason transgressed after a moment's hesitation so fleeting that Damian most likely hadn't noticed.

"Thank you!" The prince squealed excitedly and leaned forward to inform the chauffeur of his new destination. Then he turned to Jason, "By the way, I brought you something from Bangkok."

  
With a single glance from him, Cass grabbed her faux leather bag and rummaged through it until she finally pulled out a packet of M&M's Pretzel. The garish blue bag was covered in the lovely loops and flourishes of Thai script.

  
"You remembered."

  
M&M's were Jason's favorite treat. Cass or Damian always bought him a bag when they traveled abroad; Damian had read somewhere that the formula varied by country, and had decided that they had to try them all.

  
"Well, how are they?" he asked when Jason popped one of the chocolates into his mouth.

  
"Delicious."

  
Actually, they were a little stale, but that wasn't surprising given the number of miles they'd traveled, squished into the side pocket of Cass's purse.

They rounded a corner, and the palace appeared before them; too soon, in Jason's opinion, although, after all, King's College was only about two miles away. Virginia pines loomed, tall and arrogant, on either side of the street, which was lined with bureaucratic offices and crowded with people. The palace was dazzling white against the blue enamel of the sky. Its reflection danced in the waters of the Potomac, so that there seemed to be two palaces: one solid, the other faded and dreamlike.  
Tourists clung to the iron gates of the palace, where a line of guards stood at attention, hands raised in salute. Above the circular entrance, Jason saw the waving edge of the Royal Standard, the flag that indicated the monarch was officially in residence.  
He took a deep breath and braced himself. He hadn't wanted to go back to the palace because he didn't want to risk seeing him. He still hated him for what had happened the night of the graduation party.  
However, what Jason hated most was the small part of him that secretly wished to see him, even after everything he had done to him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Artemis**

Artemis Crock turned the key of her front door and froze for a moment. Out of habit, she looked back, smiling, even though it had been months since the paparazzi had swarmed her yard, as they did when she was dating with Richard.  
Across the river she could see a corner of the Washington Palace. The center of the world, or at least the center of her world.

From that angle it was beautiful, with the afternoon light spilling over its white sandstone bricks and tall arched windows. However, as Artemis well knew, the palace was not as tidy as it appeared. Built on the original site of Mount Vernon, the home of King George I, it had been restored again and again, and every monarch had tried to leave their mark on it, so in the end it was a bewildering nest of galleries, staircases and corridors that was always crowded.

Artemis lived with her parents on the edge of Herald Oaks, the neighborhood of aristocratic mansions east of the palace. Unlike their neighbors' estates, which had been passed down from generation to generation over the past two and a half centuries, the Crock home was fairly new. So was their title of nobility.

At least her family had a title, thank God, though too low in the hierarchy for Artemis' liking. Her father, Crusher, was the second baronet of Margrave. The dignity of baronet had been granted by King Thomas III to the girl's grandfather for his "personal diplomatic service" to Empress Anna of Russia. No one in her family had explained to her exactly what kind of service it was. And, naturally, Artemis had drawn her own conclusions.

She closed the door after walking in, slid her leather backpack off her shoulder, and heard her mother's voice in the dining room:

  
"Artemis? Can you come in for a moment?"

  
"Of course," she answered, forcing herself to wipe the impatience from her tone.

  
She had expected her parents to call a family conclave that day, as they had so many times before: when Richard had asked her to go out with her, or when he had invited her to spend the vacations with his family, or the unthinkable day the prince had broken up with her. Every single milestone in her relationship with Richard had involved one of those talks. Her family worked that way.

Not that her parents had contributed much to the matter either. Everything Artemis had achieved with the prince had been thanks to her efforts and that of no one else.  
She sat down in the chair across from her parents at the dining room table and went to get the pitcher of iced tea, casually, to pour herself a glass. She already knew what her mother's next words would be.

  
"He came back last night."

  
There was no need to clarify to whom she was referring. Prince Richard George John Augustus, the eldest of the four siblings in the royal household and the only beta.

  
"I know."

As if Artemis hadn't set up a dozen internet alerts with the prince's name, as if she didn't constantly check social networks for any shred of information about his whereabouts. As if she didn't know the prince better than anyone else, likely better than his own mother.

  
"You didn't go to meet him at the plane"

  
"By the side of all his screaming fans? No, thank you. I'm seeing Richard tonight, at the Queen's Ball"

She refused to call the prince Dick or Rick, as everyone else did. Otherwise it sounded very unmonarchical.

  
"It's been six months," her father reminded her. "Are you sure you're ready?"

  
"I guess I have to be," she replied curtly.

  
Of course she was ready.

  
"We're just trying to help, Artemis," her mother hastened to intervene. "Tonight is important. After all we've been through...."

A psychologist would take it for granted that Artemis had inherited her parents' ambition, but it would be more accurate to say that her parents' ambition had been magnified and concentrated in her, just as a curved lens is capable of concentrating the sun's scattered rays.  
Paula Crock's social climbing had begun before Artemis was born.  
Pau Brooks, as she then called herself, left her small Nebraska hometown at the age of nineteen armed only with her stunning beauty and a razor-sharp wit. She signed a contract with one of the top modeling agencies in the country in a matter of weeks. Her face soon appeared in magazines and on billboards, lingerie ads and car commercials. America became infatuated with her.

In the end, Pau reinvented herself as Paula and set her sights on a title.  
After meeting Artemis' father, it was only a matter of time before she became Lady Margrave.  
And if all went according to plan and Artemis married Richard, surely her parents would get something better than a lowly baronet's dignity. Perhaps they would become earls...  
Maybe even marquises.

  
"We only want what's best for you," Paula added, looking her daughter in the eye.

  
_You mean what's best for you_ , Artemis thought, and was tempted to respond with those words.

  
"I'll be fine," she said.

Artemis had known for years that she would marry the prince. That was the right word: she knew. She didn't expect or dream, nor was it even that she was destined to marry him, since all those words implied the intervention of fate, of uncertainty.  
When she was little, she pitied the girls at her school who were obsessed with the royal family: the ones who copied everything Princess Cassandra wore or pasted Prince Richard's picture on their lockers. What did they do when they were enraptured by his poster and pretended the prince was her boyfriend? Pretending was for babies and idiots, and Artemis was neither.

Then, in eighth grade, Artemis' class went on a field trip to the palace, and she realized why her parents clung so obsessively to their aristocratic position: because that status was their window to it.  
As she gazed at the palace in all its inaccessible grandeur, as she listened to her companions whisper how wonderful it was to be a princess, Artemis realized, to her surprise, that they were right. Being a princess was indeed wonderful. So, unlike them, she would become one.  
After the excursion, Artemis decided that she would date the prince and, as was the case with all the goals she set for herself, she succeeded. She applied to St. Ursula's, the private institute for omegas that the omegas of the royal family had attended since immemorial times. Richard's brothers were there. It also didn't hurt that Richard's high school, Forsythe Academy, for alphas and betas only, was right next door.

Indeed, before the end of the year, the prince had already asked her out on a date, when she was in first grade and he was in third.  
It was not always easy to handle someone as spontaneous and carefree as Richard. Yet she was everything a princess should be: thoughtful, cultivated and, of course, beautiful. The people and press of the country adored her. She even won the approval of the queen mother, and it was common knowledge that Richard's grandmother didn't like anyone.  
Until the night of Damian's high school graduation party, that was when it all went horribly wrong. When Helena got hurt and Artemis went looking for Richard... and found him in bed with another boy. An alpha by the smell. 

It was the prince, there was no doubt about it; the light reflected off the beautiful blue-black shade of his hair in an unmistakable way. Artemis tried to breathe. She began to see little black dots floating in the air.  
After all she had been through, after all her efforts....  
She took a staggering step back and fled the room before either of them could see her. Richard called her the next morning. For a moment, Artemis felt a pang of panic: she feared that he had found out everything, that he knew of her terrible and unthinkable action.  
However, he merely blurted out the breakup talk to her, stammering, a speech that might as well have been written by his public relations employees. He kept repeating that they were both very young: that Artemis had not yet finished college (being that she had taken a gap year just for him) and that he was still getting used to running the family charities. That it would be best for the two of them to spend some time apart, though he hoped they could remain friends. Artemis spoke with an eerie calmness and told him she understood.

As soon as Richard hung up, she called Natasha at the Daily News and leaked the breakup story. She had learned long ago that the first version was always the most important, as it set the tone for those that came after. So he made sure Natasha reported that the breakup was by mutual agreement, that Artemis and Richard had decided it was for the best.  
At least, the article hinted very subtly, for the time being.  
In the six months since the breakup, Richard had been out of town, on a royal tour and then on a scattered trip with his younger siblings, which had given Artemis plenty of time to think about their relationship..., about what they had done, and about the price the young woman had paid for it.  
Even after everything that had happened, even knowing what she knew, she still wanted to be princess. And she intended to get Richard back.

-We just want to take care of you," Paula continued, as earnestly as she would have spoken of a potentially lethal medical diagnosis. "Especially now..."

  
Artemis knew what her mother was referring to: now that she and Dick had broken up, it was open hunting season, when the flocks of omegas and betas would start chasing him. "The poachers," the newspapers called them. Privately, Artemis liked to call them Richbitches.

No matter what city they were in, they were always the same: they wore short skirts, blouses that showed their necks and didn't bother to hide their smell like most people, and they spent hours waiting in hotel lobbies or bars in the hope of seeing him. The prince, who was never aware of anything, fluttered happily back and forth like a butterfly while those omegas chased him with their nets. 

In reality, the poachers were no competition; none of them was a match for the baronet's daughter. Still, every time he saw a picture of Richard surrounded by a flock of omegas, Artemis couldn't help but worry. There were so many of them...  
Not to mention the alpha in Richard's bed, whoever he was. The masochistic part of her desperately wanted to know. After that night she' d expected the alpha to show up with some sordid article telling all the details, but that hadn't happened. After all, it would be the first time Dick's liking for alphas would be known, all his life he had been surrounded by betas, or omegas like her.

She looked up at the mirror above the dresser to calm herself.  
There was no denying that she was gorgeous, that she possessed a unique and dazzling beauty that seemed to justify all the successes and excuse much of the failures. She had inherited her mother's vivacious features, her olive complexion and, above all, her eyes: those gray eyes with a hint of black that seemed to hint at secrets never revealed. But the hair was her father's, a glorious golden, cascading almost to her waist.  
She gave a faint smile, tempered, as always, by the promise locked in her own reflection.

"Artemis," her father said, pulling her out of her reverie, "whatever happens, know that we are on your side. Always"

  
_Whatever happens_. Artemis looked at him, did he know what she had done that night?

  
"I'll be fine," she repeated, and left it at that.

  
She knew what was expected of her. If one plan didn't work, she had to organize another; if she slipped and fell, she must always fall forward. Artemis could only move forward and keep climbing.  
Her parents had no idea what their daughter was capable of, no idea what she had already done to achieve the Crown.


	4. Chapter 4

**Damian**

That night, Damian made his way to the nondescript open doorway in the first floor hallway, as if the architect had thought to add it the door at the last moment. It might not look impressive, but it was the Door of Sighs, the royal family's private entrance to the grand ballroom: it was so named because generations of princesses had stood behind it when they were too young to attend the celebrations, so they let out romantic sighs as they watched the people dance.

  
"Your parents are going to give you a hard time," Jason commented. Cassandra had beaten them to it, so for the moment it was just the two of them. 

"Maybe"

Though Damian doubted his parents had even noticed his tardiness. They never noticed anything he did, unless he behaved so badly that they were forced to.  
Damian's bodyguard trotted alongside them with his lips pressed tightly together. Damian could tell that Caleb was still mad at him for his Thailand shenanigans. Well, he hadn't actually deliberately jumped into traffic; Caleb had left him no choice. Nothing else had worked with him: not persuasion, not pleading, not even Damian's last resort, which usually included a complaint about pain from his early rutting or how good Caleb smelled. When he tried, the agent had merely handed him two ibuprofen tablets, a bottle of water and an suppressant patch.

"I'm going in with the Pheasant," Caleb mumbled into the walkie talkie.

Damian swallowed his anger at hearing his code name. All members of the royal family were named after birds: the king was the Eagle; the queen was the Swan; Tim was the Hawk; Dick was the Robin; Cassandra was the Peacock. Damian had learned two years ago why security called the second in line to the throne the Pheasant.

Because he was second fiddle. That is, he was not the first, the heir. Damian was the backup son, the insurance policy: a living replacement battery. 

The herald, standing at attention at the Door of Sighs, dared not comment on Damian's delay. He waited for him to pull a small mirror from his pocket and fix his hair.

When he nodded, the herald entered the hall and tapped the floor with his huge golden staff. The sound bounced above the noises of the party: the clinking of wine glasses, the scraping of leather soles, the hum of gossip.

"His Highness Damian Thomas Alexander of the House of Washington!"

  
Damian shot a glance at Jason and entered the ballroom.

Hundreds of eyes turned to him, all of them glittering and calculating. They wondered how much weight he would have gained outside, how much his suit cost, or if he envied his big brother too much. Damian tried not to wince. He'd forgotten how big a function it really was with the full court, with all the nobles and politicians present, even the life members of the House and their wives.

Waiters in white gloves strolled among them with glasses of champagne and a string quartet played jazz in the background. Garlands of Christmas greenery hung everywhere, decorated with poinsettias and huge red velvet bows. In one corner stood the official palace Christmas tree, its branches laden with old-fashioned strips of popcorn and cherries, since that was how the royal family had decorated their trees for hundreds of years.

Damian saw Dick outside. The glass windows were open, and courtiers were spread out on the colonnaded terrace and milling around the chandelier-like heat lamps.

A few of Dick's friends were already there. Dick looked at him with a clear warning in his eyes just as an arm wrapped around Damian's elbow like a pincer.

"Damian. We need to talk"

  
Queen Talia wore her strapless black dress with serene elegance; her shiny hair was tied back with antique diamond hairpins, the same ones George II had won from the French King Louis XVI in the famous card game, the Louisiana Wager, so called by the people because it had meant the cession of the French territory of Louisiana to America.

  
"Hi, Mom," Damian greeted her cheerfully, though he knew it wouldn't do any good.

  
"That's not the Suit I picked out for you"

  
Talia had the unique ability to frown and smile at the same time, which Damian had always found terrifying and also a little bit impressive.

  
"I know"

The young man had paid no attention to the dull suit his mother had chosen for him and had opted for another one covered in black sequins and a low-necked shirt to expose part of his neck and his bondage gland: too provocative and inappropriate for such a formal event, but it was all the same to him. His unbridled dark hair was loose and disheveled, as if he had just gotten out of bed. He had also borrowed his grandmother's choker from the Crown Jewels collection, a cabochon-cut ruby necklace with interspersed diamonds. Instead of closing it around his neck, however, he had wrapped it around his wrist, transforming the elegant gems into something almost sexy.

Damian had decided long ago that, if he couldn't be handsome, he should at least be sexy. And he wasn't handsome, not by the country's canons of beauty; his skin was too dark, his eyebrows too straight, his cheekbones too pronounced and sharp, like those of the rest of his maternal family across the ocean. 

Nevertheless, people tended to forget that as soon he began to speak. He exuded a hazy, infectious energy, as if he were somehow more alive than everyone else. As if all his nerves were firing at once, just below the surface. The queen led him decisively to one side of the ballroom, away from prying ears.

"Your father and I are disappointed in you," she began.

  
 _What a shock_ , thought the prince.

  
"I'm sorry," he replied wearily.

  
He knew the script, he knew it was easier to tell his mother what she wanted to hear.

He had managed to avoid them both after arriving late the night before, and they had been too busy with preparations for the gala to talk to him during the day. He couldn't put off that moment forever.

"You're sorry? That's the only thing you can think to say after running away from your security agents? Damian, your behavior is inexcusable! These men risk their lives for you every day. Their job is literally to stand between you and bullets. The least you can do is show them some respect!"

  
"Have you made the same speech to Dick yet?" Damian asked, as if he didn't know the answer. Dick always got out of every mess unscathed.

  
It wasn't fair. As progressive as America claimed to be, there was still a sexist double standard underpinning its foundations. Dick, Cass and he were proof of it, as in those scientific studies where they treated two twin babies the same, except for one key variable, and then tracked the effects.

Here the variable was that Dick and Cass were a beta and alpha, respectively, and Damian, an omega, and even when they did the exact same thing, people reacted in a different way.

If the paparazzi caught Cass in the midst of a consumerist attack on high-end stores, she was indulging in a special occasion. If it was Damian, he was spoiled.

If there were pictures of Dick clearly drunk and stumbling around a bar, he was releasing stress because he needed to. If it was Damian, she was a wild party animal.

If Dick was being outrageous to the paparazzi, he was being assertive and protecting his privacy. If it was about Damian, she was a hard-hearted bitch.

He would have loved to see how the press would react if Tim did any of those things, but, of course, her brother never went a bit out of the script.

Damian knew that none of it was Dick or Cass's fault. Still..., it was enough to make him wish he could change things; not that it was in his power.

  
"I don't see it as such a big deal," he protested half-heartedly. "We haven't hurt anyone. Why don't you let me have some fun for once in my life?"

  
"Damian, no one has ever accused you of not having fun," his mother snapped.

  
Damian tried not to let it show how much the comment hurt him.

"Couldn't you at least try to behave yourself today, please?" his mother asked after sighing. "It's a very important night for your brother"

  
"What do you mean?" Damian asked, intrigued by Talia's serious tone of voice.

  
The queen merely pursed her lips. Whatever it was, she didn't trust Damian enough to tell him. As always.

The young man wished he could go back to the moment in Thailand when he had turned to Dick with an arched eyebrow in defiance and dared him to run away. Or to an earlier point, even, to the days before his mother had looked at her with such patent disappointment on her face. 

He remembered how she used to smile when Damian came home with his stories about school. Talia would sit her son on her lap to lovingly stroke his head.  
But Damian knew it was hopeless. No one cared what he really thought; all they wanted was for him to shut up and stop stealing media attention from the perfect Tim. To stay in the background. To be seen, but not heard.

He kept his head cocked slightly to one side, looking stubborn, as he paced the ballroom.

Well, now they could all gossip about his outfit, which was as blindingly bright as a lit disco ball. Beneath the lashes, his gaze was determined and tumultuous.  
He had almost reached the doors on the other side when he spotted his older brother in a green suit with a delicate darker pattern on the sleeves and back, plus a low collared aqua green shirt and no tie, surely his first of the evening: it was customary for him to change costumes several times at state functions.

He was talking to a woman with angular features and gray hair. It took Damian a moment to realize that they were not speaking English.

He hurried past Tim and went to settle hisself at the bar, near one end, so no one would see him.

Where had Jason gone? He looked for him with his eyes, but when he couldn't find his friend he decided to go for Cassandra. He pulled out his cell phone and hurriedly typed a message, "At the bar, come with me." Then he leaned over to look the bartender in the eye.

  
"Can you get me a beer?"

  
He looked at him suspiciously. They both knew that in the palace they never served beer at events like that; it was considered too pedestrian, whatever that meant.

  
"Please," Damian added with the sweetest smile he could muster, "Don't you have a bottle in the back, at least?"

  
The bartender hesitated, as if weighing the risks, then ducked behind the bar and came out a second later with a couple of bottles of ice-cold beer.

  
"If anyone asks, it wasn't me."

  
Then he winked at her and turned to distance himself from the proof of the crime.

  
"Oh, good, I was looking for one," exclaimed a voice to his left, just as someone took one of the bottles from his hand.

  
"Hey, that's mine!" Damian protested as he turned around.

  
The boy next to him leaned his elbows on the bar; a mischievous glint lit up his eyes, which were a startling blue. He looked a year or two older than him, about Cassandra's age, with unruly black hair and sharp features. HIf it hadn't been for the dimples, his beauty would have been almost intimidating.

Who would he be? Unlike most nobles, who, in Damian's experience, were rather soft, this boy had the muscular body of an athlete.

  
"Easy, beast. No need to get into a fistfight so early"

  
"Did you just call me a beast?" Damian asked, not knowing whether to be insulted or intrigued.

  
"Would you prefer highness?" he asked as he gave him a brief bow. "I'm Jonathan Kent, by the way. My friends call me Jon"

  
So he was a real noble. Very noble, in fact. Although Damian rather liked that he introduced himself only by his first name when, as heir to a dukedom, he was technically Lord Jonathan Kent.

The Kents were one of the most important New England families since the Mayflower. Some would say they were more American, even, than the Washingtons, who, after all, had intermarried with foreign royalty for the past two centuries. Jon's father was the current Duke of Boston: one of the original thirteen dukedoms, those granted by George I at the first Queen's Ball. The Old Guard, they sometimes called those families, because no more dukedoms could be granted. Congress had banned their creation in 1870.

  
"We've just met and we're already friends? You're very insolent, Jon," Damian joked. "Where does that Jon come from? Did your mommy give it to you? It's kind of bland for a lord"

  
"Almost. My grandfather used to call himself that, and I stuck with his nickname" Jon raised his arms in a gesture of mock helplessness. "Doesn't it remind you of the name of a puppy or a stuffed animal?"

  
"It's just that I never had a puppy or a stuffed animal. I had a blanket that I creatively named Blankie," Damian told him. "Well, I did. I only have half a Blankie left"

  
"Where's the other half?"

  
"Cass has it" Why the hell was he telling him that story? It was Jon's fault and his charming smile. "Our grandfather gave us Blankie before he died. He gave it to both of us"

  
"A blanket for two people?

  
Damian started to swirl his beer bottle on the marble surface of the bar.

  
"I think he wanted us to learn to share. It didn't work, of course. When my father caught us arguing over Blankie, he took a pair of scissors and cut it in half"

  
Jon looked at him, really looked at him, and those very blue eyes peered into his for a second longer than was socially acceptable. Damian realized he was desperate to know what he was thinking. What he was thinking about him.

  
"Having an older brother sounds difficult. I'm glad I'm an only child"

  
Damian shrugged one of his shoulders. At least the fight hadn't been with Tim, because the king would have handed the blanket to his brother without a second thought.

  
"Well, Jon with the name of a puppy, do you fear the ceremony as much as I do?"

"Should I?

  
"Clearly you have never attended a Queen's Ball. Timothy and my father have to knight all the noble candidates, one by one, in alphabetical order. It's like the world's worst high school graduation, except each graduate gets a letter patent of nobility, instead of a diploma"

  
"I got the impression that I was a little hasty in saying it was too early in the day to get in a fistfight"

  
"I'll drink to that"

  
Damian clinked his flask against his, not caring that it was bad luck to toast with beer (or was that only in France?) and took a swig. It was as if the rest of the room was behind curved, fogged glass, as if there was no one but the two of them at the party.

  
"I have to ask. Why are you hiding at the bar instead of walking around the room greeting guests like the rest of your family?"

  
"Believe me when I tell you that the rest of my family doesn't need my help. Right now, my brother is talking to the German ambassador... in German," Damian replied with an annoyed look on his face.

  
"Wow, that's..." Jon began to say, slowly.

  
"Hateful?"

  
"I was going to say awesome," he replied, and Damian blushed as he felt caught. However, he often got the impression that Tim went out of his way to make others look like slobs.

  
When he was little, an eternity ago now, Damian considered himself smart. He loved to read, spent hours listening to stories about the kings and queens who had gone before them, and had a great memory for detail. But then he began studying at St. Ursula's, where his innate self-confidence was systematically undermined.

He didn't have his older brother's patience or knack for numbers, nor did he enjoy chairing clubs and committees, as he did. On more than one occasion, Damian overheard teachers talking about him in hushed tones: "He's no Timothy," they commented with obvious frustration. Gradually, Damian came to believe it. Damian was nothing more than the Other Washington Brother.

He looked at Jon, who was starting to fidget as if he was going to leave. But he didn't want him to leave yet.

  
"We can go to the throne room, if you like. The ceremony will begin soon," he proposed.

  
Jon raised his arm in a show of natural courtesy.

  
"Your Highness first"

  
"My friends call me Dami," he replied as he gave her his arm, still holding the half-empty ale in his other hand.

  
The noise of the party followed them, laughter and music bouncing off the high ceilings of the old building. A steady stream of traffic was coursing down the hallway: servants in tails, public relations personnel, and television crews.

Jon paused at the entrance to the throne room to gaze up at the vault towering above them. On it was the famous mural of King George I crossing the sky in a winged chariot.

  
"It's by Charles Wilson Peale," Damian muttered, oblivious to the puzzled looks from the support staff waiting in the room.

  
Damian tried not to meet Caleb's gaze, who was already there, standing next to Tim's bodyguard, a tall, fierce-looking young man in Honor Guard uniform.

  
"From the Peale family in Pennsylvania?" Jon asked.

  
Damian shrugged his shoulders. He liked Charles Wilson much better than his modern descendants. He liked Charles Wilson much better than his modern descendants. He was pretty sure the Peales had been the ones in tenth grade who'd spread the rumor that he'd been sent to a detox center, and only because he'd danced with one of they old boyfriends at a party.

  
"He was a lieutenant in the Revolutionary War. He painted that too," he added, nodding to one of the corners of the room, where four columns stood. "They are supposed to represent the four pillars of American virtue: truth, justice, honor and family. The weirdest one, the one with the hay bales and piglets, is the family, in case you hadn't caught it."

  
"How do you know so much about history?" Jon asked with sparkling eyes.

  
"I used to run away from my nanny and sneak off on guided tours of the palace," Damian confessed. "Sometimes people wouldn't even see me. Or, if they did, I would whisper that I was playing hide-and-seek with my sister and ask them to help me hide. They almost always did. My nanny would look for me all over the palace, but it never occurred to her to look in the crowd"

  
"I think you're too smart for your own good," he commented, shaking his head in puzzlement.

  
The trumpets began to sound at the other end of the hall, indicating that the ceremony would begin in fifteen minutes. The noise was followed by the clatter of the footsteps of hundreds of people in slow procession toward the throne room.

Damian's heart skipped a beat. Etiquette, as well as common sense, dictated that he should lead Jon to his seat, but he didn't want to. He wasn't finished with him. He wished his warm energy would stay focused on him a little longer.

He grabbed him by the hand and dragged him down the aisle, then opened a nondescript door and closed it behind them.

The closet smelled of a combination of furs, cedarwood, cinnamon, and Damian's Vol de Nuit perfume. A trickle of light streamed in through the frame.

Damian still had the beer in his hand. He raised it to his lips, acutely aware of the juxtaposition it entailed: dressed in a couture suit and the prized Crown Jewels, while sipping a beer. Jon arched an eyebrow, grim-faced, though he made no attempt to walk away.

He set the empty bottle on the floor and turned to look at him.

  
"I don't know if you're aware that I'm your superior," he whispered, mockingly.

  
"It may have been mentioned to me a couple of times"

  
He reached up to the boy's shoulders to tug at the end of his bow tie, which fell to the floor, "I am your superior and, as your prince, I command you to kiss me"

  
Jon hesitated and, for a moment, Damian feared he had misread the signals. However, the young man's face relaxed and he smiled.

  
"I don't think monarchs have the right to give despotic orders like that anymore," he said quietly.

  
"I am not a monarch. Then you refuse?"

  
"In this case, I am happy to obey. But don't take it for granted that it will be so with all your orders"

  
"I'm fine with that"

  
Damian grabbed his shirt and pulled it toward him.

Jon's mouth was hot, and the boy kissed him back eagerly, almost eagerly. Damian closed his eyes and pulled back in the darkness so that he bumped into someone's mink. His blood bubbled, as light and sparkling as champagne.

On the other side of the door, he heard the noisy gaggle of courtiers marching toward the throne room. In a tactical understanding, he and Jon kept absolutely silent and let themselves be kissed even more.

It didn't matter whether Damian showed up for the ceremony or not; no one would notice if he wasn't there. After all, he was nothing more than the Pheasant.  
  



End file.
